


driving home for Christmas

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Mild Smut, Morseverse Secret Santa 2019, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21942670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: Morse returns home, to his real home, for Christmas. Sweetness ensues. An addition to the Soft Like Summer Rain world!
Relationships: Hope/Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	driving home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fitzrove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzrove/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Soft Like Summer Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897688) by [Fitzrove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzrove/pseuds/Fitzrove). 

> Merry Chrsitmas Fitzrove! I think you may have guessed I was your secret santa this year lol, but I hope you enjoy anyways - I reread SLSR in preparation, and I really hope I've done the characters justice for you, I wanted to keep up the amazing storyline you had going! I just wanted to write all the cute moments for Morse/Jakes/Hopes and family!! 
> 
> If my maths is right, this is set in 1978, so Morse 40 (just) and the kids are 11, 10 and 8 respectively? Idk how to write kids so I hope I did that right lol 
> 
> Anyways enough of me rambling, Merry Christmas my dear, I hope you enjoy this, I had a lot of fun writing it, and I adore the world you have created <3

The plane ride was absolutely atrocious, not that Morse expected any else. The repeated habit he made of it had not (as Peter insisted it would) made it easier. No matter how much he loved what lay for him in Wyoming, planes were not his friend. Stomach still quite a mess of knots, Morse finds himself staggering through the terminal scowling. Some brat had decided to beat the living daylights out of his chair, and the same brainless child was now howling in his mother’s arms as they left. Morse shudders. No child of his would ever have the nerve to holler quite like  _ that  _ in public, no thank you very much. 

“Dad!” Then again. 

Quite suddenly he finds himself thrown backwards as a short, red-headed blur collides with him straight on. In the time he regained his footing, he has decided that perhaps, in some cases, children  _ are _ permitted to scream like banshees - especially if they have not seen their father in nearly two years. He wraps an arm around the young girl clinging to his side and holds her close. 

“Hello Dawnie,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. How she’s grown, almost up to his chest now. 

“I’ve missed you,” she mumbles into his coat. He can’t help the grin, or the sting of tears in his eyes. 

“You too dear,” he say giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Where’s everyone else?” 

Dawn finally extracts herself from his side, but wriggles her hand into his. She looks ever so grown up now, and so very much like her mother, but with the same curl to her hair as his. He drops his hand from his case for a moment to reach over and ruffle it. The snowflakes caught in it do nothing to disguise the warm red colouring. She giggles.

“Outside, it’s just dad and Cheryl,” she say, wrinkling her nose. “David’s sick, so mom stayed with him.” She must catch sight of the face he pulls, because she pats his hand reassuringly. 

“Don’t worry, he’s just got a cold.” She launches into a tale about how he caught it off her, and how Hope’s had it too.

The pair of them pull their coats a little tighter, and begin their way through the airport, bracing themselves for the icy winds that blow outside. Dawn swings their joined hands between them, chattering away with a lot of energy, despite the fact it’s nearly nine o’clock in the evening. 

Outside the wind is just as cold as Morse expected, and there’s a thin layer of ice anywhere that hasn’t been gritted within an inch of its life. They trundle through the piles of snow to avoid slipping, eventually making their way to the drop off point.

As the truck comes into view and Morse can’t help the strange mix of feelings it stirs in his chest. No matter how many times he rides in it, it reminds him of jet-lagged glances at Peter the first time he arrived, of the terrible time he’d first had to say goodbye to him in it. This time, it isn’t Peter who greets him first, but Cheryl, bounding out of the truck so fast she nearly topples over on the ice. Morse sticks out a hand to catch her by the arm of her coat, and gives her a stern look. 

“Let’s not start the holidays with a trip to the hospital, mmm?” the sternness melted away halfway through his sentence, Cheryl’s bright smile sweet to stay mad at. “Merry Christmas, dear.” 

He is the fun one after all. She wraps herself around him in a hug then, not one he can return though, his hands too full of cases and Dawn. 

“Hey pops,” she says, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “Want me to grab that?” She’s already pulling his case from his hands, ever the little helper. Whilst she hefts the thing into the back of the truck, the driver’s door opens, and one Peter Jakes comes spilling out. Long legs first, still in those infuriatingly lovely jeans, then the rest of him, wrapped in a thick coat Morse had given him last winter. The collar of a thick knitted cardigan poked out, adorned no doubt with some ghastly Christmas pattern. 

“Howdy Morse,” he said with a grin. Morse rolls his eyes. At least he’s forgone the hat this time of year. “How was the flight?” he starts asking as he moves to step forward, before his foot slides on the ice beneath him, and his legs shoot out from under him. Morse manages to drop Dawn’s hand just in time to catch Peter before he lands, arms thrust under his.

“Falling for me?” he asks softly, their faces mere inches apart. For what he thought was a pretty smooth move, he gets a swat around the head. 

“Let me up, you git,” Peter grumbles lightheartedly. He’s gone a little red in the face, not entirely from the cold Morse suspects. Morse chuckles, releasing him once he’s steady on two feet again. By then, the truck is loaded with his cases. Enough in there for his three week stay and then some, but he has missed a few birthdays at this point. 

Peter pushes him towards the passenger seat, and the heaters he’d had running for a good while now. Morse doesn’t argue, waving his fingers under the things in the hopes to defrost them; it’s just like him to forget to pack gloves. They’re out of the airport soon, and making their way slowly along the winding roads back home. The radio crackles with an eclectic mix of country and Christmas songs, some that manage to be both somehow, and the girls take great joy in singing along to it. Morse pretends to be annoyed by it, groaning loudly when the next song starts. Peter winds him up, belting along terribly, on purpose. 

After nearly an hour, the laughter dies down, and Morse gets his hands on the radio. He finds something nice and quiet, carols and hymns, and turns it down low. The girls fall quiet, huddled under a blanket, so Peter and Morse can talk. It’s small talk really, messages relayed from old colleagues, updates on extended family, that sort of thing. Strange’s promotion to inspector, Morse’s name being thrown around for one too. It’s nothing of much consequence, nothing more than what they write each other about, the odd times that they do. More than anything it’s just a chance to  _ chat  _ like normal people do. Face to face, without postage or time zones or dial codes. It’s a chance for them to just  _ be. _

At some point, Peter’s hand finds its way to his. The conversation trails off, but not into an uncomfortable silence, just the warm kind of quiet one expects from winter. They drive like that, to the sound of choirs singing, till they reach the house. 

* * *

The Jakes’ have gone all out for the holiday it seems, lights in every window of the house. It creates quite the sight, driving up against the backdrop of a dreary December evening, a thousand strings of lights shining against the blanket of snow. For a second Morse wonders if they’ve let the horses roam the front of the house, until he realises they’re wooden reindeer, and he smirks to himself wondering just how long it took Peter to put those together. 

Peter glances over at him as they pull up to the drive. He doesn’t kill the engine right away, not wanting to disturb the two girls in the back, now both quite fast asleep. He unbuckles his seat belt though, and twists in his seat. Morse does the same, so that he can get a proper look at Peter. There’s just enough glow from the Christmas lights that they’re illuminated, soft yellows, flickering through red and green every few seconds. 

He hasn’t changed all that much, but it’s been so long Morse stares anyways. It’s a minute, before the chaos of Christmas begins, to drink the sight of each other in. Peter’s hair is a little longer than last time he was here, and there’s something a little artificial about the colour at his temples. Morse reaches a hand up to tangles his fingers in it and inspects it for a second, twirling a strand between his fingers. 

“What?” Peter says, voice quiet. Morse’s lips quirk into a sly smile. 

“You know some of us just accept we’re getting older?” Peter snorts. 

“Hey at least it’s not all my hair, old man,” he says, eyeing Morse’s greying locks. Morse would elbow him in the ribs if he could. 

“Excuse you, I’ve only just turned forty, I’m in my prime.” Peter laughs again. It’s amazing how easily they can slip back into their easy banter nowadays. 

“Yeah, I’m sure all the girls are going wild for the Santa look back in Oxford, aren’t they?” Morse puffs his chest. 

“Maybe they are, how would you know? I could have all the girls I want back there.” 

Peter shifts in his seat, leans in a little closer. Morse’s hand moves from his hair to his cheek, and he can feel him smile beneath under his touch. 

“Yeah, but you’ve got all the girls you need right here,” he says softly nodding his head towards the backseat, and Morse’s heart may have just melted, a little. 

“Boys too,” he says, leaning in to kiss him. It’s short and sweet, and Morse tries to put everything into it - all this love, the longing, the bittersweet pain of waiting so long to do this again. He’s missed this, all of it. Peter is right, he has all the people he needs right here; him and Hope, all three of the kids. They’re all he will ever need. 

When Peter pulls back from this kiss, it’s with misty eyes and pink lips. 

Their moment is interrupted, though not unhappily, by the rap of knuckles on the window. A shivering Hope, in her slippers and dressing gown, stands beside the truck. 

“You two gonna sit here and freeze your asses off  _ all _ night?” shes asks, the biggest smile on her face. 

Morse tumbles from the car and Hope launches herself at him. Were his reflexes any slower, they both would have landed in the snow, as she jumps into his arms. She’s laughing, and it’s infectious, he finds himself laughing as he gets a faceful of her hair. She squeezes him tight.

“Oh Morse, it’s been too long,” she sighs as he eventually lowers her back to the ground. “Don’t make us wait this long again, okay?” 

“I’ll try my best,” he says, dropping a kiss to her cheek. When he pulls back he takes a moment to really look at her, to take her all. Still as lovely as ever, managing somehow to not show her age as much as he or Peter. He runs his knuckles over her chin, an affectionate move that has her melting into him. She tucks her arms up inside his coat, stealing his warmth for herself. Morse lets her, because it means he doesn’t have to let her go just yet. She’s right, it’s been far too long. It’s only when there’s a very unsubtle cough from beside them they pull apart, to find Peter watching them both with shining eyes. 

“Not to ruin the moment, but can we move inside, before I really  _ do  _ freeze my ass off?” 

Hope laughs. 

“Yeah, come on in guys, just got the kettle boiling - or would you prefer something a little stronger, Morse?” She knows him so well. 

“Something stronger, if you don’t mind, dear.” 

Peter has Dawn in his arms now, she’s still half asleep and small enough he can carry her. Cheryl slides her hand into Morse’s and they follow Hope inside. 

“Mom’s right, s’been too long,” she nods, stumbling forward. She crashes into Morse, who takes pity and scoops her up. He ignores the twinge in his back doing so brings, because he is  _ not  _ old and decrepit just yet. 

“Okay, not so long next time,” he promises, kissing her head. Hope’s hands fly to her chest.

“I’ll grab your bags, you get these two to bed, yeah?” Peter nods, and heads inside, but Hope grabs Morse’s arm before he can follow. 

“David’s supposed to be asleep, but he’s probably sitting up for you - go say hi?” 

His youngest son is indeed awake, albeit barely. There’s a paper bin full of used tissues by the bed, and a tea tree candle burning in the corner of the room. Morse slips through the door and crouches down beside him. 

“Daddy?” David croaks. Morse reaches a hand out to feel his forehead. A little warm, but nothing serious. “Daddy!” A little more awake, David struggles against his duvet to wriggle forward and throw his arms around his neck. 

“Hello David,” he laughs, moving to stand. He can hear Peter closing the door to Dawn’s room, so he pokes his head out into the hall. 

“Look who I found,” he says, and Peter grins. 

“Someone who should really be in bed right now?” David shrieks. 

“No! Daddy’s here, it’s Christmas!” Morse chuckles. 

“It’s not Christmas day yet,” he reminds him gently. David’s bottom lip wobbles. 

“Dad, dad-” he cries, looking at Peter now. “You said when daddy got here- you said it’d be Christmas!” 

Morse glared at Peter, who threw his hands up. Thankfully Hope appeared at the top of the stairs, and swooped in, managing to diffuse the situation before it got any more dramatic. 

Eventually, once all the children all in bed, with minimal tantrums, Morse falls into his spot on the sofa. Even after all these years, when he’s there, it’s his spot. In the middle of the pair of them, so they can both get as much of him as they can. Hope is already curled under a blanket, the minute he sits down she scoots closer, pulls his arm till he wraps it around her and fits herself in beside him. 

“You’re still cold,” she grumbles, kicking the blanket out to cover his lap. She’s wrapped her fingers through his and is rubbing them. He enjoys the sensation of her soft fingers on his. He’s missed her light touches, all the casual elegance in her movements. 

“Oxford’s not as snowy, I’m not used to it,” he says, watching with amusement as she plays with his hand. She sighs, leaning in closer to him. 

“Guess we’ll just have to warm you up then,” she says, watching as Peter strolls in, a tray of drinks in hand. 

“Oh, thanks love,” Hopes says, reaching up to pick one from the tray. Morse stares in disbelief. 

“That doesn’t look like what I asked for,” he says, accepting the mug from Peter anyway. It’s steaming hot chocolate, piled high with whipped cream. Definitely not the scotch he had asked for. 

“You need warming up, shut up and enjoy it, Scrooge.” Morse lets out a weary sigh as he stares into his, admittedly very nice smelling, drink. 

“It’s December tenth! They’re not having their presents till Christmas, that’s all I said,” he defended himself, but to no avail. 

“You made David cry, Morse,” Peter says, shaking his head solemnly. 

“Because he missed me, Peter. He can have his birthday presents in the morning, it’s gone eleven,” he turned to Hope and looked helpless. 

“Hope, dear, tell him I’m right.” 

“Listen to your husband Pete,” she mumbles through a mouthful of marshmallows. Peter strops good naturedly for a while, leaning to the far end of the sofa, out of reach for a solid five minutes. So Morse makes a show of leaning into Hope, cupping her chin gently and leaning in for a kiss. She makes appreciative noise against his mouth, hands curling possessive around his neck. Morse can feel Peter’s eyes on them, and laughs. 

“Think we’re being watched, love,” he whispers against her cheek. Beneath him, Hope shivers.

“Jealous bastard isn’t he?” She pulls Morse closer, till he’s practically on top of her. A few years ago, Morse might have still felt strange doing this, right in front of Peter. He knew neither of them minded, but it still felt strange somehow, like it was too good to be true and it might come crashing down without warning. Now here they were, a happy family of three, well six, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to cup Hope’s breasts through her gown and slide a knee between her thighs.

For a second, he’s almost forgotten Peter, till a hand makes its way up his leg, creeps up to his backside and pinches.

“Hands off my wife,” he says with that strained voice of his that means anything  _ but.  _ Hope laughs, breathless underneath him.

“Keep ‘em right where they are mister,” and Morse finds himself more than willing to oblige, fondling her playfully as he nips at her neck. He slides a hand down to untie her gown, and finds quite happily, she’s shed whatever she was wearing underneath. Forget presents under the tree, this is all he wants to unwrap now. He takes his time peeling the gown open, slowly exposing more and more skin. With each sliver of her tanned chest revealed, he leans down and kisses at it. He makes his way down her chest, her stomach. By the time Hope’s out of her gown completely, Morse is so far down the sofa, he’s practically sitting on Peter’s lap. 

He pauses his work, sits up and stretches. Something in his back tells him maybe he’s getting too old for messing about on the sofa like this, but it won’t stop him. 

Peter takes the opportunity to grab him by the hips and pulls him onto his lap properly, and Morse is pleased to discover that he's been enjoying watching. There’s a dark, delicious look in his eyes, and Morse can’t help leaning in to kiss it off him. 

“You’re a right tease, Morse,” Peter groans, as Morse starts grinding his hips a little. Hope, who is know propped up on her elbows, watching, whines. 

“You can’t stop there, c’mon; not fair.” Her toes jabs Peter in the hip. “Give him back.” 

Morse chuckles to himself, concentrating on buttoning Peter’s shirt. He wants to get his hands on those shoulders, to lay claim to them with his tongue. It’s been far too long since he’s scraped red lines into Peter’s back, or bitten into the curve of his neck. He treats him long and slow, flashes Hope sly looks when Peter’s head is thrown back, eyes closed. She’s sat up now, watching with hungry eyes, her hands wandering her own body as she enjoys the show. Morse can’t help getting distracted a little, at the sight of her in the soft glow of the fire, her lip between her teeth and her fingers between her thighs.

Peter notices, cracks open an eye. 

“Wha’ m’I missing?” He slurs, and his eyes widen a little at the sight. “Oh…” 

“Don’t mind me fellas, carry on-“ 

Morse glances back to Peter.

“It’d be rude to leave a lady wanting,” he says slowly. Peter nods. 

“Sure would,” he agrees Morse clambers off his lip, Peter quickly filling the gap with his own hand. Morse is already unbuckling his belt, Hope leering at him hungrily as he slides over towards her.

“Oh hello sergeant,” she breathes, grabbing his shoulders and yanking him forward. Morse laughs, her eagerness endearing.

“Good to know you missed me,” he says, catching her lips with his. Her hands grab at him, as he slips between her legs and buries himself in her. The noises coming out of Hope are like music to his ears, soft and sweet and lovely. He buries his face in her hair, breathing in the smell of her, revelling in the soft feel of her, the warmth of her around him. For now, all he knows is Hope. Then Peter’s hands are on him, wrapped around his legs, his waist, grabbing at his hips where they can. It’s far too much, all these hands on him, more than he’s had in years. He might have teased Peter with tales of girls, but in all truth, aside from a drunken fumble here and there, there’s not been an awful lot of this sort of thing going on. It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s brought to the edge, mumbling inchoerent babble against Hope’s neck while Peter gropes him from behind. He whimpers, and it makes his face flush red. 

“Hope, I’m gonna-” She smiles something wicked, and bites his lip. 

“Yes sweetheart, yes-” he unravels completely, her words the last straw. The world for a moment is nothing but sweet, shining nothingness. He pants against Hope’s chest, collapses into her. Peter’s hand finds its way to the small of his back, and the touch is red hot. If he wasn’t already spent, the sound of Peter gasping out his name would have done it. 

He lies there, surrounded by all the love he could ever need, and he smiles, chest full of some warm, happy feeling. He’s home, finally. 

* * *

They eventually head off to separate beds, only because Morse is still running on Oxford time, and will no doubt be catching up on sleep come morning. The best laid plans however, are hopelessly dashed by the time the sun rises as Morse finds himself woken up by the sudden weight of three extra bodies launching themselves into his bed. 

“Wake up, wake up!” He’s not quite sure who’s shouting, possibly all three of them, but David is standing on the foot of the bed, a pillow in hand, ready to launch it at his head. 

“Alright, alright,” he cries, hands in the air in surrender. “I’m up!” David cackles in the way only little boys can, and drops the pillow, barrelling straight into Morse’s arms instead. Dawn is already cuddled up to one side, and Cheryl has squashed herself between the bed and the wall too. He lets the three of them babble on for a bit, updating him on all their goings on; their end of term parties, that sort of thing. Morse catches movement out of the corner of his eye, midway through Cheryl’s story about her science homework, and glances up.

Hope stands in the doorway, Peter behind her with his hands around her waist and chin on her head. The pair of them are watching with soppy smiles on their faces. 

“We told them to wait,” Hope says, waving a disapproving finger at them. 

“We’ve waited like, two years,” Cheryl cries, throwing her hands up. “I’m tired of waiting to see you.” Morse is slightly taken aback, Cheryl not usually one for such open shows of emotions, but reaches over David’s head to nudge her shoulder.

“Me too, dear.” 

Despite Hope dragging the kids from the room and Peter insisting he sleep in a little longer, Morse is downstairs twenty minutes later. He pads around in a stolen pair of Peter’s slippers, the tiles far too cold to walk on this time of year. Breakfast is well underway by the time he appears at the table, and Hope drops a heaping plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. 

“Eat up, mister, you’re all skin and bones again,” she says pinching his arm playfully. Morse doesn’t try to argue, this is a fight he has lost enough times. No matter how many times he reassures the pair of them he eats quite well thank you very much, they’re determined to feed him up. Back in Oxford, it just seems sad to cook for one, and it’s not a hobby he particularly enjoys anyways. Here, meals are an event, something full of noise and chatter and food for everyone. This is what he enjoys. Looking around the table, at Cheryl sneaking mouthfuls of Peter’s coffee when she thinks nobody is watching, or David arguing loudly that yes, he  _ can  _ and  _ will  _ put jam on his scrambled eggs, he gets the same fond feeling again. As unorthodox as their lives may be, as different to anything he had ever planned for, it is theirs and Morse wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Perhaps if he were a braver man, he could move out here permanently, perhaps one day he still would. But Oxford had a pull on him too, he was needed there too. There was business there still unfinished, and if he left Max DeBryn to deal with the new lot at Thames Valley alone, well that would just be criminal. One day, he told himself, when his time in Oxford came to a close, then Wyoming seemed the perfect spot to retire. 

Shaking his head, he lets Oxford fall from his mind. He’s home now, will be until the new year, and he refuses to waste a moment of his time here. He stabs at his bacon and watches as David wins his battle for jam. 

* * *

It might seem a little daft, doing it weeks before Christmas, but Morse has always been a stickler for things being fair. All three of the children have had birthdays since he was last here, so he herds them into the living room and dolls out presents. David gets his Legos, Dawn her puzzle books and Cheryl her very gorgeous set of watercolours. Hope gets a new scarf, Peter a pair of shoes he’s had tucked away since last January sales. 

Then there’s the gifts he’d brought them especially from England; Jakes favourite tea,

Hope’s chocolate, British cereal the kids can’t seem to get enough of. Letters and parcels from old friends, things Strange piled him with before he left, a recipe book Win Thursday thought Hope might like. 

Then there’s the bags hefted from his cases and tucked under the tree, a job for Peter and David, trawling back and forth as Hope watches on in despair. She slaps Morse’s arm.

“You’re bad,” she reprimands him. “Spoiling them like this.” He shrugs, hands in his pockets.

“I’ve no one else to spoil,” he says, reaching out to sling an arm around her shoulders. “Let me treat you all.” Hope smiles, twists around and kisses him. 

Dawn wanders in, hovering by the doorway, her hands behind her back. They both turn to look over at her, and she bounces on her heels. Hope squeals, slapping Morse’s wrist lightly. 

“Oh you’ll love this,” she whispers, before slipping away. “I’m gonna go stick the kettle on!” she announces, before floating off towards the kitchen. Morse looks back at Dawn, confused. 

“Dawn?” She shuffles forward, hands still kept firmly behind her back. With a shy smile she starts. 

“Well, just… you gave us all birthday presents, even though they were late,” she slowly brings her hands around, a brightly wrapped rectangle in them. 

“And it was your birthday too, only I never sent you anything,” she bites her lip as Morse waves his hand. 

“Dawn, love, you don’t have to get me anything,” he starts but she shakes her head, pressing the gift into his open hand. 

“No I wanted to! And besides I didn’t  _ get  _ you anything, I made it. Well, Cheryl helped a bit. And mom too, and dad. To be honest, we all kind of worked on it. Even David,” she laughs nervously. Morse reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. 

“Thank you Dawn, that’s… really kind of you,” he says as he wanders towards the sofa. Sitting there he can balance it on his knees as he peels back the wrapping. A small, leather-bound book falls out, a dark brown, holding together crisp white sheets of paper. Intrigued, he lets it fall open to the first page. In handwriting he knows to be Hope’s finest cursive, the title page proclaims the book  _ Dev & Dawn’s Puzzle Collection.  _ Morse’s mouth fell open, just a little. As he leafs through the pages, he finds a few of the crosswords he had sent Dawn over the years, ones cut from the Oxford Mail, pasted in and filled by her own delicate handwriting. There are empty ones too, cut from what he presumed was their local newspaper. Mixed in though, are decidedly more homemade looking puzzles, coloured in with paints of all colours, clues carefully printed beside them. 

“Dawn…” he stares, lips parted to say something more, but he’s too lost for words. It’s one of the most thoughtful gifts he’s ever received, and from his own daughter too. He’s never been so proud of her. 

“It took so long to make, so it’s sort of your Christmas present too,” she says, sounding a little worried. Morse smiled up at her, then caught her hand. 

“Dawn, dear, it’s like every present ever, all rolled into one. I love it, thank you.” She blushes bright red, before running into his arms, and he holds her so tight, he never wants to let go.

“This way,” she says, head pressed into his chest still “You’ve always got part of us with you.” She pulls back and opens the book, pointing things out as she goes. 

“Mom wrote all these fancy bits, I made up the clues - dad helped me draw the crosswords out. Cheryl and David helped colour them in, so it’s all of us. Well,” she pushes it back towards him. “It will be once you do one of them.” 

Morse has to swallow hard to keep the lump in his throat sticking, and hope very much that Dawn can’t see the tears forming. He pats down his pockets and pulls out a pen. 

“I better get started then - want to help me?”

\------

The farm still needs maintaining, so Peter is kept busy most mornings, and Hope has taken up volunteering in the town library these past few months. Morse spends a good hour fixing snow grips to her Chevy, and has to be pulled away from tinkering with it all day so she can actually go to work. It leaves Morse in charge of the children, something Morse ten years ago would have balked at. Now though, it’s a breeze, well near as. 

The first few days are pretty quiet, mostly due to David still recovering from his cold. He spends a lot of his time curled up on Morse’s lap whilst he reads or does crosswords. He’s slowly making his way through a few of Dawn’s, thoroughly impressed with each and every one of them. 

One afternoon is spent with he and Dawn either side of the living room, both mid-puzzle, Cheryl on the floor between them with her paints laid out beside her. David sits beside Morse, a stuffed dog in hand, it’s ear in his mouth, and watches Cheryl with envy. Morse can see him inch closer, every few minutes scooting closer to the edge of the seat. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Cheryl snaps, without looking up. David has one foot on the floor, half up from his chair. “They’re  _ mine. _ ” David looks up at Morse, and there’s already tears in his eyes. 

“No, Dave, come on,” he says, arms going out to pull him back up. “Leave her alone.” David wriggles in his grip. 

“But I want to paint! Why can’t I?” Cheryl sits up, apparently ready for a fight. 

“They’re mine, dad got them for me! Tell him he can’t have them!” Now the pair of them are looking at him, angry scowls on their faces. Dawn looks up over her puzzle, smirks, then turns away again. 

“You’re so mean!” David whines, and that sets them off.

“You’re a baby!”

“No I’m not, you’re stupid!”  
“Idiot!” Cheryl looks ready to launch her paintbrush at her brother, so Morse cuts in. 

“Oi, stop it the pair of you! Dave, you got Legos, why not go play with them? Or find some other paints, I’m sure there’s some somewhere,” Cheryl gets a triumphant look on her face, so Morse points a finger at her. 

“But you young lady; no need to be so rude.” Her face flushes red at that, and Morse has to bite back a sudden laugh, because she pulls the exact same face as her mother when angry. He fixes his face into something a little sterner. 

“The both of you pack it in, and play nice, alright?” He glances at the clock. 

“Time for your next lot of medicine, David. Why don’t we go get it, and then we can find you some paints, hmm?” 

The teary eyed boy nods, so Morse pulls himself out of his chair and points him towards the kitchen. Peter is at the sink, just drying off his hands as they walk in. He raises an eyebrow at David. 

“What was that all about then, son?” 

David tries to explain, through his last blubbering tears, while Morse digs out the cough syrup. Peter ends up wandering off to find paints while Morse lays down old newspapers to save the kitchen table. The afternoon manages to pass with no more sniping, but Morse doubts it’s the last of the arguments. The kids all love each other, undoubtedly, but that doesn’t mean they always necessarily  _ like  _ each other. He can’t help wondering if he and Joyce had been closer as children, if they’d have ended up like this. 

With only a few days left till Christmas, life gets a little busier. Extended family drop in more often, seeing as the Jakes’ are spending the day itself alone, so it’s almost nonstop visits and drop-ins. Morse hangs back a little, because he knows to everyone else, this isn’t quite  _ normal _ . It’s one of those things that most everyone knows, but doesn’t say anything about. Morse is polite enough to Hope’s parents, quite likes her sister actually, she’s always up for a laugh. Her grandparents don’t like him so much, and Peter has to kick him under the table when he goes to snap back at great aunt Dorothy. They survive it though, with minimal fuss. 

All too quickly, the twentieth rolls around, and Morse can’t quite believe over a week has flown by. They bundle themselves up, all six of them, in their thickest socks and coats, and head off into town. David’s cold has cleared up just in time for the Christmas market. The town centre is lit up in more sparkling lights than Morse thought possible, and there are stalls on every corner, most of them exuding some sort of delicious smell. They lose themselves in the hustle and bustle, Hope haggling for a turkey with one stall owner, Peter treating the kids to gingerbread and apple cider. He stomps across the snow to press a warm cup of mulled wine into Morse’s hands. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Peter asks as Morse breathes in the smell of it. Morse shrugs. 

“How much snow you get here, compared to Oxford,” he says. “I stopped by the market there last year, but it was a lot… wetter,” he said, nose wrinkling. “Very pretty though.” Peter nods. 

“Think I remember going once or twice, nice,” he waves a hand at the flashing lights dangling from the shop windows around them. “Not quite as loud as this.” Morse takes a sip of his wine. 

“Quaint though. These lot would like it,” he says, pointing to where the girls are sat on a bench, watching David kick at the snow. Peter smiles, bumps his arm with his shoulder. 

“You saying you’ll host next year?” 

Morse thinks on it for a moment. Peter and Hope visited him for a weekend a few years back, whilst on a trip around Europe together, before David was born. They’d not been back to the UK since, mostly because Morse didn’t see the sense in forking out for five tickets, when he was happy to squish up in economy to come see them. It didn’t mean he didn’t think about it sometimes though, of the six of them crammed into his living room. It’d give him an excuse to dig out the decorations people kept giving him, and a reason to fill the kitchen. The kids would have to share a room, but they’d fit. It would mean he could see his precious few other friends over the holidays too. His thoughts went to Max and Strange, the Thursdays perhaps. Now Fred was retired, and Joan and Sam both off and married with their own kiddies, perhaps he and Win could come round Christmas Eve. The kids would finally meet their cousins, both of them, seeing that Joyce was expecting again. 

Images of his own house, full of people, filled his head and Morse found himself not so daunted by the prospect as he would have thought. He looks back at Peter and nods. 

“Yes, actually. I think I will.” 

* * *

Christmas Eve is full of energy, the children all too excited to sit still. Hope ends up leading them - and Morse - all outside to hunt down Peter, who has gone to feed the horses. They try to stalk quiet as the night, across the snow, though Dawn has an uncontrollable case of the giggles that is apparently catching. They don’t manage to surprise Peter, who strolls out of the barn laughing, but Morse  _ does  _ manage to hit him square in the face with a fistfull of snow. Thus begins an hour long war, waged from either side of the barn. 

Teams change many times throughout the battle, at some point it’s boys and girls, then it’s the little ones against the old farts, then it’s Britain versus America, a split that finds Peter and Morse huddled together behind a door to avoid being pelted with Dawn’s sharp shooting. Morse, breathless up against the wood, watches as Peter pulls up his coat, to better shield the both of them. Hidden under it, both their noses bright read, warm breath fogging in the cold air, Morse can’t help leaning forward to snatch a kiss. Peter, carefree and giddy like this is his favourite kind. So far from the prickly sergeant he met all those years ago, this Peter returns the kiss, pins him up against the barn and snogs him silly. That is, until a wet block of snow hits Morse in the face, half of it falling down his collar and he lets out a very surprised and undignified shriek. 

Just like that, the moment passes, but Morse can still feel Peter’s lips on his as they return to diving through the snow in order to exact revenge. 

They return to the house not quite sure who has won, but all rather soaking wet. Hope whips the kids coats off them while Morse lights the fire, and Peter goes to run a bath. Within the hour, all three are bathed and changed, brand new pyjamas laid out by Santa all ready and warmed for them. Morse sits on the floor by the fire, ready to read  _ The Night Before Christmas  _ something in previous years, he has stayed up to do over the phone. David’s eyes are drooping before he’s even finished, and by the time St. Nick is wishing to all a good night, all three are ready to drop. 

Hope takes David, Peter Cheryl, and Morse takes a sleepy Dawn by the hand and leads her upstairs. He loves all his children dearly, of course he does, but there is something special about Dawn. Something about the way she pulls at her ear when she’s thinking, her knack for puzzles that Hope and Peter both freely admit they don’t share. The freckles on her nose that last even through the winter, where the others tend just to tan. Dawn is Peter’s daughter, no denying that, they have the same short temper sometimes, the same terrible sense of humour; but she is most certainly Morse’s too. It makes his heart a little lighter, knowing his mother's memory is not lost to time, and that she lives on in Dawn’s eyes. 

He steps back downstairs, scolding himself for his sentimentality and blaming it on getting old. They spend a while putting the last presents under the tree, the extra ones Morse snuck in when Hope wasn’t looking, and filling the stockings that hang over the fire. Morse slips the pocket book of sudoku into Dawn’s, hoping she’ll enjoy the challenge of a new type of puzzle. Peter appears at his shoulder, hands coming to rest on his waist. His lips find Morse’s neck, and Morse has to shiver at the gentle touch. 

“Merry Christmas, Morse,” he says quietly. Hope’s at his side then, arms around his middle, so the three of them stand in the firelight in a huddle of arms. Peter’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder, nose buried in his neck, and Hope is pressed against his chest. He has never felt quite so grounded, quite so certain that this is where he is meant to be. The long cold nights in the run down flats of Oxford seem a distant memory compared to this. If there was a way to bottle this feeling, to commit to memory every part of this he would. Of Hope’s hair tickling his chin, of Peter’s fingers as the trail down and squeeze his hip. He wants never to forget this feeling. 

The reoccurring swell of his heart is back, filling his chest to bursting. His eyes are suddenly quite wet, but the tears that fall are happy, his head too full of happy memories like these to hold them in. 

Tomorrow will bring undoubtedly more chaos. Presents and new toys, food and more brandy than is probably sensible. Morse will end up falling asleep in front of the television, woken by a call from his sister to wish him happy holidays, then another from Strange. Dinner will be a noisy occasion, probably a messy one too, but it’ll be the best he’s ever had, surrounded by the best family he could ever wish for. 

For now though, he stands by the fire, held tight by two of the people he loves most dearly. 


End file.
